FEBRUARY 16, 1998:
For 50 years, the world has celebrated Bip, the pasty-faced clown
who appears alone onstage with a teardrop forming in one eye. As with
Charlie Chaplin before him, language is no barrier for this great artist
because he is able to communicate without words. A creation of the great
mime Marcel Marceau, who performs at the Ryman Auditorium Saturday, Bip has
carried his creator all over the world and has earned him the highest award
from the French government as "Chevalier de la Legion d'Honneur." Today,
Marceau's school in France is an international mecca for students of mime;
its influence has spread from the street corners of Paris, where silent
performers beg for their suppers, to all corners of the world, where
countless mimes can be seen imitating their idol.

I fell in love with Bip on his first American tour in the
mid-'50s. Enchanted, I laughed even at a simple skit such as "Walking
Against the Wind." It seemed as if a gale had descended onto the stage, and
this intrepid clown was forced to galvanize every bit of strength in his
skinny body to fight against it. As he skidded farther and farther
backwards, I worried that he was going to be blown away at any moment. Yet
he doggedly returned again and again, even crawling against the gusts on
his hands and knees. When he finally stood upright, his was a triumph of
the human spirit.

In "The Maskmaker," Marceau perfectly embodied the fine line between
humor and pathos. Assuming the guise of an arrogant fellow who cleverly
slips on and off the masks of Tragedy or Comedy, his face and posture
changed from happy to sad with the simple movement of his hand across his
face. But whoops!--the mask of comedy stuck. It was grotesque to see him
struggle so trying to remove it, all the while grinning broadly in an
expression that belied his pain. Close to panic, he flopped on the floor
and pulled and pulled while the audience, now totally wrapped up in his
awful struggle, willed him to escape. Suddenly, the mask ripped off. He
fell to the floor, exhausted. Wiser now, he arose and put those
surrealistic and dangerous toys out of reach.

When Bip swaggered onstage in the guise of a lion-tamer, still dressed
in his collapsed stovepipe hat with perky flower atop, it was hard for
audiences to believe that this timid character was really going to enter
the lion cage--no matter that he carried an imaginary whip and had taken on
the fiercest expression he could muster. I'll never forget the hilarious
scene where at last he stuck his head in the lion's jaws, both terrified
out of his mind and puffed with pride. Ah, brave Bip! Let's hear it for the
common man!

In "Bip Plays David and Goliath," he managed to stage a fight between a
giant and a small clown by shuttling back and forth behind a narrow black
velvet screen, where he quickly rearranged his posture to suit the
character. As David, he squatted down low and turned his face upwards with
eyes as big as saucers. Then, stepping behind the screen, he emerged from
the other side teetering on tiptoe with shoulders held high and arms
dangling down menacingly. Another step behind the screen, and David came
dashing out, as fast as he could run away. These metamorphoses occurred
with astonishing frequency as the battle intensified. To see this age-old
story encapsulated in six or seven minutes--without one word spoken--was
truly affecting.

The secret of Marceau's universal appeal lies in the fact that Bip is
all too human in his ineptitude, yet, like Chaplin or Buster Keaton, he
maintains his dignity in the midst of disaster. When Bip rides on the
subway, for instance, he hangs onto a strap that's a wee bit too high for
him. Aggressive, taller riders bump him about and knock him off balance.
Trapped in the crowd, he's resourceful enough to escape the car by ducking
under everyone, bidding a polite but silent adieu as he scoots away. When
he attends a cocktail party, he commits faux pas right and left with
insouciant blundering. His face is the very picture of pathos when another
guest walks off with the pretty girl whom he has attempted, without
success, to impress.

Marcel Marceau appears for his one-man show Feb. 14 at the Ryman, in
what could turn out to be his farewell tour of the United States. Since it
will be Valentine's Day, I'm hopeful that he will portray "Bip in Love" for
us. I wouldn't be surprised if, just as I did the first time I saw him, you
fall in love with this unique clown who can make you laugh and cry at one
and the same time. It is truly amazing how such an artist, who portrays the
most ordinary of experiences yet distills the most extraordinary of
emotions, can speak to the human heart.